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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25450510">Opéra Plage, Quai des États-Unis, Nice, France</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/alyyks/pseuds/alyyks'>alyyks</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Old Guard (Movie 2020)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Art Enthusiast Nile Freeman, Minor Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova, POV Nile Freeman, Pre-Andy | Andromache of Scythia/Nile Freeman, Pre-Epilogue</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-07-22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-07-22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 08:56:00</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,062</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25450510</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/alyyks/pseuds/alyyks</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>It wouldn’t be wrong to call it “the start of the rest of her life.”</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>154</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Opéra Plage, Quai des États-Unis, Nice, France</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Thanks and cheers to antonomasia, who saw this being written and said "yes, good"</p><p>Mark Chagall at the Art Institute of chicago: https://www.artic.edu/artworks/109439/america-windows</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Nile didn’t know what she was expecting. After those first few days, after… well, it wouldn’t be wrong to call it “the start of the rest of her life.” She already knows how to fight with them, slid into place like she and they had been there for years. At some point, she will fully take in the fact that she can take a bullet and walk away, that she can take a bullet for Andy and both will walk away—but later, that can come in later.</p><p>Now, she’s on the patio of a café on the French Riviera, one with its own bit of private beach. The sea is shining behind Nicky and Joe. The coffee is delicious. The city is very pretty and full of tourists. Andy is still black and blue from the assault on Merrick’s labs. </p><p>Nile takes it in. </p><p>“So now what?” </p><p>Nicky is reclined in his chair, one ankle over his knee —there’s a knife under his jeans he could get to before even needing to blink— and his arm thrown over the back of Joe’s chair. Joe is leaning over the table with his arms crossed, eyes hidden behind sunglasses. There’s a gun tucked in the small of his back, and Nicky could also grab that if needed. </p><p>Andy sips at her coffee, left arm leaning on the back of her chair. It must pull at the gunshot wound something fierce. She doesn’t seem to care. </p><p>Nile can’t figure out where Andy is keeping a weapon. There’s no question she has one or several on. Practice, Nile figures. Years, and decades, and centuries of practice. And one day it’ll be her too. She doesn’t know it with her guts yet, can only see the edges of it. Her own weapon is tucked at the small of her back, hidden under her jacket, even if the weather is almost too warm for a jacket. It’s a Beretta M9, the same kind she had trained with and carried since enlisting. It’s a small detail in the grand scheme of things, but that was the handgun Andy gave her from a cache in the basement of a restaurant Nile would have never stepped foot in before they left London. It’s a detail. It’s a lot.</p><p>“We have time before Copley gets back to us,” Joe says, and there’s a smile dancing at the corner of his lips when he says time, because it is a joke of a kind, one she is in on. They have time too because now they have to slow down for Andy, who doesn’t bounce back as fast as them, not that Andy will make it easy on them, or on herself. </p><p>They have time because while Nile might fit with them when they are in a fight, she’s still new. She’s known them for what, a week? What is time, she thinks.</p><p>“We need new IDs,” Andy says. She looks around, seeming totally relaxed. </p><p>“Marseille?” Nicky asks. “Booker left at least two sets the last time.” </p><p>“And at least one brand new for Nile,” Andy said. </p><p>Maybe it was in one of Jay’s magazines, or in one of the books that ended up somehow in their tent, that there had been an article about disappearing, or at least about a book about faking your death. Many of the points they raised, they had used the exact opposite to track down people: money, family, social media—shopping habits. Names. That’s what Nile is thinking about: she vanished off the face of the earth and she needs to stay that way. Her phone is burning a hole in the pocket of her pants. She’d love nothing more than to call her mother but she’s seen exactly the kind of target that would draw on her family—exactly what kind of person would love to dissect Joe and Nicky, to dissect her, to see what made them tick and so much for the bystanders. </p><p>Had Andy not intervened, Nile had no doubt she’d have been disappeared, for a long, long time. </p><p>She can’t think about that either, yet. Like she can’t think that she’s AWOL. That she left her squadmates behind. </p><p>There’s a hand on her hand, and she startles, look up, and it’s Joe looking at her. “Like I said,” he says, and that smile is still around, but his eyes meet hers with too much understanding, sunglasses raised up, “we have time.” </p><p>“I’ve never been to France before,” she blurts out. Joe squeezes her hand, leans back into his chair and against Nicky’s arm.</p><p>“Chagall or Matisse?” Andy asks, like it’s a perfectly normal question. </p><p>“What?” Nile says. </p><p>“Each of them have a museum right here.” And there’s a smile dancing around Andy’s lips, and it’s not the grin that was more teeth barred than emotion during the fights at Merrick’s, and it’s not the smile she gave Nile while fighting in the plane. Nile doesn’t know those people, doesn’t know Andy, doesn’t know how she is in normal times and even what normal stands for. And Andy is remembering that Nile recognized the Rodin kept in Andy’s Ali Baba’s cave of a mine, remembers that Nile has an interest in art. </p><p>What is time. Who are those people. Who am I. What do I want. This is what Nile is thinking, thoughts jumping from one to the other without enough of a break.</p><p>“Don’t we need to be in Marseille?” </p><p>“The day is young and Marseille is just two hours away,” Nicky says, stretching. “Besides, that’s the ‘now what.’ One job, then a breather. See the sights, catch up to a bit of one country—“</p><p>“—sometimes fall right into the next thing without looking for it—“ Joe interrupts. Nicky nods in a “what can you do” manner. </p><p>“—check on the local cache or make a new one.” </p><p>“I’ve seen the stained glass windows Chagall did for the Art Institute back home,” Nile said, her eyes on Andy and her mind continuing to jump on a million different things: Chicago, home, the incredible blue of the stained glass then, blue like the sea almost too bright shining back into Andy’s eyes now. </p><p>Nile breathes in. Breathes out. It can come later, all can come later. </p><p>“I think I’d like to see Chagall here,” she said. And to Andy: “Do you have time?”</p>
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